“What exactly did Marie tell you—about the circumstances of her divorce?” Vicki asked, leaning forward. “Come on, you can tell me. It’s not like it’s a secret.”
Cara shrugged. “She didn’t get into the details. She just said she thinks Brooke feels torn—between loyalty to her mother, and anger at her father. Something about the second wife?”
“Patricia,” Vicki said. “Or Patti, as she used to be called before she decided to reinvent herself. Patricia Showalter Linencamp Trapnell. Do you know her?”
“No.”
“You haven’t missed much,” Vicki said. “What a remorseless little tramp she is. And when I think about how she had all of us fooled…”
Cara twisted around in her chair. She really needed to get back to the shop. And she didn’t want to be seen slinging mud with Vicki Cooper right in the middle of the golf-club lobby. It just didn’t look right.
“I know, I know, you think this is all just petty gossip,” Vicki said. “But you know me, Cara. I never gossip.”
Cara struggled to keep a straight face.
“How did you leave it with Marie?” Vicki asked.
“I just asked if she could let me know by Friday whether or not her ex had decided to hire this other florist his new wife, Patricia, knows.”
“Oh yes, Cullen Kane, boy wonder. Patricia’s new best friend. I hear they’re practically joined at the hip these days. And that’s who Gordon wants to hire to do the flowers for Brooke’s wedding?”
“I think so,” Cara said. “Although Marie did say her ex might want to interview me.”
“Absurd!” Vicki said. “Gordon doesn’t know the first thing about flowers. This is all Patricia’s doing.”
“I might just go ahead and bow out,” Cara said. “After all, if they really want Cullen Kane…”
“Don’t you dare!” Vicki said sharply. “This is all just a control issue. Gordon wants to prove that he still has Marie under his big fat thumb, that’s all.”
“Still, if he’s paying for his daughter’s wedding, you can’t blame him for wanting to be consulted.”
“Marie doesn’t need Gordon’s money to pay for Brooke’s wedding. She inherited more money than he’ll ever think about having, from her grandfather when he passed away last year,” Vicki confided.
“I’ve known Gordon for years and years,” Vicki said now. “Patricia too, for that matter. And I hate what the two of them have done to Marie. She’s a shell of her former self, Cara. Would you believe, she used to be a senior vice president at one of the biggest ad agencies in New York? She’s twice as smart as Gordon ever hoped to be, but gave up her career after she married that goober. Even after she had Brooke, Marie was a powerhouse. Headed up the development committee for Brooke’s school that raised a five-million-dollar endowment fund, was on the board of the library, she helped get the book festival started here, chaired the United Way campaign…”
“Really?” It was hard for Cara to reconcile the image of a powerful business executive with the nervous, uncertain woman she’d met the previous day.
“The divorce shook her to the core,” Vicki confided. She made a face. “When I think of that weasel Patricia, pretending to be Marie’s dear friend all those years—it literally makes me sick. You think you know somebody, right? And then they turn out to be a devious, backstabbing bitch.”
“You were friends with this Patricia?”
“Honey, we all ran around in the same crowd. Brooke and my Cason started preschool together. Patricia’s twins from her first marriage were a year older, and anyway, after Patricia split with Billy, her second husband, she shipped the boys off to military school and that was the last we saw of them. I never liked Patricia, her pretensions were always a little much as far as I was concerned—but our husbands were business associates and golf buddies. You know how that works in this town.”
Cara did know.
“When Patricia snaked Gordon away from Marie, she did more than just wreck a marriage. She broke up our supper club—couples were taking sides, of course, and it wasn’t fun anymore. Our book club dissolved—Marie was the glue, and after she quit coming, because of Patricia, we never got back on track. I know it’s selfish of me, considering what Marie has been through, but really, even though it’s been four or five years, I’m still so mad about book club I could spit!”
As she talked, Vicki was idly watching the flow of traffic in the country-club lobby. Men in golf and tennis togs filtered in, heading for the men’s card room; young mothers with small children in swimsuits came in from the pool. Vicki’s eyes widened.
“Well I’ll be damned,” she said, her voice low. “Speak of the devil.”
Cara casually glanced to her left. Two women were walking in, their heads bent together in conversation. They headed toward the main dining room.
“The blonde? With the face transplant? That’s Patricia,” Vicki murmured. “I don’t know the gal she’s with. Probably one of her new friends from Charleston. She pretty much burned all her bridges here, so she had to go trawling up there for some new besties.”
Patricia Trapnell was scanning the room as she walked. She spotted Vicki Cooper, gave her a bright smile and a finger wave, then turned back toward her friend.
“She knows better than to try to speak to me,” Vicki said bitterly.
